Welcome
to BK Walker Books Etc. I'm so happy you could join me today in

Gresham,
Oregon.

BK:
Please tell us a little about yourself...

I’m a multi-genre author writing inspirational nonfiction,
Christian fiction, and paranormal romance/fantasy. I have two kids
who keep waiting for me to write a bestseller. I’m working on it!
And my day job (yes, I still need one of those) is in social services
helping others achieve success. Reading and writing are my fave
things to do. I enjoy encouraging and entertaining others. If I can
do that simultaneously, I’ve accomplished my mission.

BK:
Please tell us a little about your book....

Soul Defenders
is a supernatural thriller with a spiritual message. It incorporates
fantastical elements with biblical truths, romance, and sizzling
suspense.

BK:
What inspired you to pen this particular novel?

Years ago, I found great inspiration and entertainment value in
reading authors like Frank Peretti. I wanted to write a book that was
both intriguing and inspiring, but at the same time unique from Mr.
Peretti’s and other Christian authors. I came up with the
foundation and storyline for Soul
Defenders in my book,
Slaying the Shadows.
Ten years later, I took what I’d written in the past and did a
complete overhaul and created what is now Soul
Defenders: The Black Orchids.
Ta Da!

BK:
When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I think when I was a little girl creating illustrated stories I first
identified as a writer.

BK:
How do you keep your story flowing?

I let it unfold as I go, allowing the characters to go down
unexpected and unplanned paths. I try not to get hung up with my
research and editing early on. Getting the story out in a first draft
is critical for me.

BK:
Do you ever run into writer's block, and if so, what do you do to get
past it?

Writer’s block
happens. When it does, I do something else. Take a break. Read.
Sleep.

BK:
What is your writing process like? Do you have any quirks, or
must-haves to write?

One
thing I can’t seem to not do is reread what I wrote in my last
writing session. I reread and edit that section before moving on. I
like some background noise, but for the most part, I can write most
anywhere and have been known to pull out a pen and paper rather than
my laptop if an idea hits hard.

BK:
Where do you hope your books/writing will be in the future?

Like most writers, I want my books to find their way into the hands
of readers everywhere. With today’s publishing platforms, there are
so many opportunities. I’d love to walk into the local chain store
and see my books on the shelf by the checkout. That would be pretty
amazing. Bottom line, though, I trust they will end up where they
need to be.

BK:
What do you hope readers will take away from your books?

As a “multi-genre” author that answer varies with the book, short
story, or article. With Soul
Defenders, I hope readers
are challenged to take a long look at the possibility of a spiritual
world and a Greater Power. I hope they also discover the power of
prayer, and positive thoughts and actions in the midst of complicated
and chaotic life experiences. I sincerely hope they are entertained
in the process.

BK:
What is one piece of advice you received that you carry with you in
your writing?

Don’t give
up. Keep writing.

BK:
What is one piece of advice you would give to new and aspiring
writers?

Don’t give up.
Keep writing. (Sorry, best advice I’ve ever had).

BK:
Are you currently working on any new projects? What can we expect
from you in the future?

You
can expect a book two in the Soul Defenders series, a book two in the
Werewolves of the West series, and a book that I’m chomping at the
bit to write. I’m not quite ready to share the details as it’s
something rather different, and I’d like to reveal a surprise down
the road.

Thank
you so much for taking time to chat with me today. It's been a
pleasure having you and I wish you much success in the future.

Thank
you! It’s been my pleasure to share a bit of my world with your
readers.

About
the Author

Like
most authors, Carol Van Atta is no stranger to the written word. She
penned a short novel at age 12 (somewhat frightening illustrations
included) and had a creative writing piece published in her high
school newspaper. Devouring books from numerous genres, she developed
a thirst for more reading materials and could almost always be found
with her nose in a book. She has contributed to several popular
inspirational anthologies and devotionals, published by Zondervan and
Regal Publications, and was a regular writer for Campus Crusade for
Christ's Christian Women Today. Writing fiction is her greatest joy.
Soul Defenders: The Black Orchids, is the first book in a trilogy of
spiritual warfare thrillers.

All
other e-version available at Smashwords or through Amazon, Nook etc.

Book
Description:

Will
their prayers move Heaven's Heart before it's too late?When
Ted Lyons accepts the new pastorate at Cherry Creek's Community
Church, he has no idea just how handy his former law enforcement
skills will become. A murdered pastor, the pastor's kidnapped wife,
and their runaway daughter are only the beginning in a series of
problems he wishes were part of a bad dream. Ted soon realizes he's
facing a battle better fought on his knees, in prayer, than with his
gun.As
ruthless demons, summoned by an international cult - The Black
Orchids - take over the town of Cherry Creek, angelic warriors are
dispatched to protect the weary residents and stop a diabolical plan
of destruction. By surrendering their lives to God and forming an
unlikely alliance, Ted and a rag-tag group of struggling believers
work together to slay the shadows of evil that threaten their very
existence.This
fast-paced tale of supernatural suspense will thrill fans of Frank
Peretti's This Present Darkness and Randy Alcorn's The Ishbane
Conspiracy.

Read A Sample Chapter Below

CHAPTER
ONE

Although
she was only five miles from the security of her little town, Karen
White’s hand trembled as she shut the door of her
mud-splattered Jeep.

Glancing
skyward, she noticed familiar gray clouds. Rain was in the air; she
could smell it. Cherry Creek was a magnet for grey skies and rain.
The flourishing grassy farmlands and surrounding forest ranges gave
the town its green hue while Mount Hood towered in the background,
its majesty inspiring protection.

At
the moment, Karen wasn’t at all encouraged by her
picturesque surroundings; rather, she was on the verge of a
full-fledged panic attack.

Glancing
up at the stately, snowcapped mountain, she felt so insignificant,
inadequate. She’d never imagined herself as a spy, but she knew —
God didn’t make mistakes. If He wanted her to play detective, she
would.

Walking
toward the Henderson’s abandoned farmhouse, she fought the urge to
turn back. The place was already filling her with an eerie uneasiness
that increased with every step.

On
the outside, the building looked pitiful: chipped paint, missing
shingles, broken windows. Its apparent state of neglect belied the
truth Karen had learned listening to the town’s two worst
chatty-Cathie’s at Monty’s Styling Salon last week. It
amazed her that a secret society would invite such loose-lipped
ladies into its concealed depths. Those same lips had gushed that the
Henderson property was a decoy for a high-tech compound hidden
beneath. From her vantage point nothing appeared high-tech.

She
gazed up at the barn. It loomed threateningly behind the old
farmhouse. To her relief, there didn’t appear to be anyone around
as she picked her way up the path through the swaying grass. Perhaps
she was early?

She
gasped, shocked by a thick hand grasping her shoulder, pulling her to
a stop. She cringed as recognition dawned. Byron Marker gave off that
cringe-inducing feeling anytime he was near. Lost in her thoughts,
she’d missed him creeping up behind her.

“Glad
to see you accepted my invitation. I wasn’t sure you’d show up.
Your familiarity with the town’s archives will be of great benefit
to The Cause,” Byron Marker oozed. He sounded not only creepy, but
also strangely formal.

Attempting
to camouflage her anxiety, she forced her eyes to meet his. “I hope
I can help.” She made a point of scanning the area. “Is
your daddy, Mr. Police Chief, here too?”

His
disapproving expression led her to quickly change the subject to what
she hoped was an approved topic: “Being part of such a powerful
organization is an honor.” She wondered if it was enough to diffuse
the tension.

His
expression remained guarded, providing little assurance.

Forgive
me for that lie, she prayed. God, please protect me, guide me,
and reveal to me what You will.

Byron
ignored the inquiry about his father and
guided her around the old farmhouse, to the backyard, where they
joined a group of at least fifty people
clustered outside the barn’s main
entrance.

“Why
can’t we go in?” she whispered.

“They’re
probably still preparing the room.” He didn’t elaborate. “It’s
quite an event.

This
is insane. God, I can’t do this!

Before
she could muster an excuse for leaving, she spotted the two women
from Monty’s Styling Salon. Why hadn’t she rescheduled her hair
appointment? Shirley, her regular stylist, had been out sick.

Jolted
back to the moment by a slight shove, she moved with the crowd,
prodded forward like cattle. She crossed the threshold into the
vacant barn, wishing for the final time that she’d stayed out of
Joyce and Lori’s conversation. But the truth remained: She believed
God had spoken to her, desiring for her to go. That knowledge had
changed everything.

Okay,
God, I’m in. Please stay right next to me and don’t let me make a
fool of myself. She prayed with the fervency of a child reaching
for a trusted hand in a windstorm. She
wasn’t disappointed.

Peace
caressed her spirit, bringing much-needed comfort along with a strong
sense of purpose and God’s presence, convincing her she was
exactly, no matter how wacky it appeared, where she was supposed to
be. The renewed sense of purpose gave her enough courage to follow
the others down the stairs and into the passageway below, where the
corridor fanned out into another vast room.

“Remove
your clothing and put on the robes provided,” an unidentified voice
boomed, threatening to disrupt her newly-acquired confidence.

Take
off her clothes! Why? She hadn’t anticipated this.

Glancing
around the cavernous area, she observed in amazement how quickly the
others complied. She assumed most of them had been through this
before. Were they going to take off their undergarments too?

The
bare behinds were her answer.

Not
wanting to appear as conspicuous as she felt she undressed, slipping
out of her skirt and blouse, and yanking on the black robe. After
adjusting the floppy hood, she discarded her panties, adding them to
her neat pile.

Terrified
couldn’t even begin to describe how she was feeling. She guessed
that standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a dark abyss,
with no bottom in sight, might compare.

Revolt
changed to relief, when she realized there was no possible way he’d
seen her “tush.” The discreet manner in which she’d removed her
last article of clothing left no opportunity for any ogling.

Swallowing
her disgust, she followed his lead. They joined the others who were
forming rows around an ominous red symbol in the center of the floor.
Smaller astrological shapes, magical sigils, and what seemed to be
words, scrawled in an unidentifiable language, were displayed in a
multitude of colors on the surrounding walls, ceiling, and below her
feet.

Lit
by candles, the room glowed eerily. Spirals of smoke twisted upward.
She stifled the urge to gag, overpowered by the sweet yet pungent
smell of burning incense.

The
others stared expectantly at a portion of the wall. What were they
looking for?

She
chanced another glance at the other participants, her curiosity
heightened as she recognized the familiar faces peering from under
their hooded robes: the diner’s manager, Roy; Tom, a gas attendant
at the local Arco Station; Susan, the new elementary school teacher;
and so many other so-called normal people. Her definition of
normal had just shifted.

This
is too bizarre. Has our town gone mad? God, give me courage.

Once
again feeling calmer, she continued her attempts to identify the
shadowed faces. Before she could recognize anyone else, a concealed
door swung open, revealing a towering, gaunt, grey-haired man. He
reminded her of a ghoulish game show host as he strolled into their
midst, his presence commanding attention.

“Good
evening, fellow adventurers. We are progressing splendidly with our
goals. The translation of the most difficult portion of the scroll
will begin soon. The Translator will join us any day.” The man
smiled as he continued his address.

“Tonight
is of the utmost importance. One of you will be selected to host a
spirit guide. We will receive crucial instructions. So please, relax.
You may be seated if you wish. Open your mind; go within; and begin
to seek insight.”

A
strange hum vibrated throughout the room. The air seemed to shiver
with unseen energy. Karen noted the hairs on the back of her neck and
forearms were standing at full attention in the static atmosphere.

Several
people sat in yoga positions with their legs crossed. Others stood
rocking, arms raised, in a posture of worship. Most of the group
began to chant. The sound, both ancient and evil, grew in intensity,
increasing the throbbing, electrical feeling surrounding her.

She
wanted to cover her ears, but hated to admit the rhythms were somehow
enticing. The words, although foreign, had a drug-like effect on her
mind. An erotic tingling sensation traveled up her thighs, another
terrifying testimony to the power unleashed by their invocations.

She
found herself swaying with the others as if an invisible force was
pressing against her, drawing her into a diabolical dance.

A
baseball-sized crystal was passed with reverence through the crowd.
It glowed amber, giving off an unnatural radiance. The moment Joe
Nickels, a conservative banker, grasped the orb, it flared crimson,
blazing between his fingers.

He
toppled over, the crystal clutched in his hands.

Karen
watched, horrified, as his body writhed with convulsions. Alarmed,
she started forward thinking maybe she should administer first aid.

Byron
shot her a warning glance.

Struggling
for balance, the banker sat up. He didn’t seem so small anymore.
His eyes, usually a dull gray, now had a haunting
crimson glow.

Someone,
or something, stared out through those red eyes.

His
mouth gaped, as if pried open by invisible hands, and a menacing,
other-worldly voice bellowed, “The plan is progressing as our
Master wishes.”

His
head twisted in an unnatural jerky motion, until, without warning,
the red eyes latched onto hers.

Oh
no! He knows I’m an intruder. Afraid to look away, she
maintained eye contact, ignoring the perspiration trickling down her
cheek, only to drop from her jaw in what felt like slow-motion. She
was sure he could sense her secret, and see her perspiring.

Mercifully,
when she couldn’t bear it a second longer, his attention
transferred to the next person. She swiped sweat from her upper lip,
and attempted to regain her composure.

He
continued his announcement: “There is the matter of Rose Howard,
Pastor Howard’s widow. She has located her late husband’s journal
and will attempt to disclose its contents this evening. We cannot
permit these narrow-minded, judgmental people, to interfere with The
Cause.

And
beware of a new man coming to town. He will try to stop us. Make note
of his weaknesses.”

With
the message dispatched, the banker’s body
sagged; collapsing like a puppet whose puppeteer had released
its strings. Emptied of whatever force had filled him, he lay
motionless.

The
grey-haired man lurched forward, drawing closer to the awestruck
crowd. “You heard the instructions. Our timing is critical. Several
of you have envelopes in your pockets.”

Karen,
along with the others, fumbled through her cloak’s pockets.
Nothing. Thank you, God.

“Those
of you fortunate enough to be chosen for this assignment will remain
for further instructions. The rest of you are free to go, or you may
stay and visit the specialty rooms.”

People
nodded, sharing knowing glances. One woman winked at the owner of the
bakery. Others clustered together talking in hushed tones.

Karen
could imagine what went on in the specialty rooms: sex, drugs,
and more in-depth contact with evil spirits. She wanted to escape but
waited, not wanting to appear as repulsed as she felt.

Several
other participants found their clothing and began to dress. She
followed their example, relieved the ordeal was almost over. Locating
her clothing, she dressed faster than she thought possible. Fear had
a way of speeding things up.

Moving
toward the exit, she noticed Byron opening one of the infamous
envelopes. Not wanting to discuss her impression of the evening with
her horror so fresh, she hurried by with her head down.

Dodging
through the remaining participants, she stumbled up the stairs and
through the barn, no longer caring what anyone thought.

Relieved
to be out of the smoke-filled dungeon, she inhaled deeply, savoring
the refreshing night air. Off in the distance, over the tree
branches, she could see the carnival rides’ twinkling lights.
They’d been erected earlier in honor of the annual Mountain Day’s
Celebration.

Celebrating
tonight was not an option. All she wanted was to go home, lock the
door, take a long, hot shower, and cry.

Lily
Howard laughed from her perch high atop the groaning, old
carnival ride. She felt as if she could reach out and touch the stars
blinking overhead.

Some
of the children shrieked with delight. Others screamed in terror. She
grasped the security bar in front of her as the iron cage spun and
began its rapid descent.

“What
a ride!” she shrilled, realizing she felt pretty good tonight.

Her
father had been dead for almost eight months; she’d been feeling
like she’d died right along with him. But here, on this giant
grinding machine, she was alive, exhilarated. Her stomach, protesting
the spinning motion, gurgled; even though she’d made a point to
avoid the enticing aromas when she’d strolled down the midway
earlier with her mom. Puking on the rides was not her idea of a good
time, nor was it cool.

A
good time would be when she turned sixteen in just over a month.
Sweet Sixteen, at last. I can’t wait!

Interrupting
her birthday thoughts, the ride screeched, and then shuddered to a
sudden, clanking halt. A scruffy, greasy-haired man unlatched the
door to her metal cage. With caution, she stepped onto the narrow
ramp. Her legs were wobbly, like a newborn foal’s. She smiled at
the image, and caught her mother studying her.

“What?
Do I look funny?” Her mother was awesome. Lily couldn’t imagine a
day without her.

“Funny
isn’t the right word.” Rose smirked, her playful side making an
appearance.

“Whaddja
mean?” Lily shot back, joining her mom at the railing.

“Well,
you look happy, and rumpled.”

Her
stomach grumbled again and it had nothing to do with motion sickness.
“What I really am is starved. Let’s eat before it rains.” She
linked arms with her mother.

“I
feel different tonight, like a gloomy cloud has been lifted. Do you
know what I mean?”

Giggling,
they joined the long line, evidence that they weren’t the only ones
craving the fair’s most gourmet dish.

Rose
Howard spread a generous amount of catsup on her second corn dog.
Taking a bite, she observed Lily. Her little girl was becoming quite
a beauty. Lily loved being well-dressed and took care of herself and
her clothing to the point of obsession. Rose smiled at the thought of
Lily’s hysterical reaction to a few muddy paw prints on her new
white shorts last week.

Hearing
laughter, Rose returned her attention to the present. Lily and
several of the local girls huddled together whispering. Teenagers,
almost young adults; they seemed more like aliens from another
planet.

Seeing
her interacting and laughing with her peers again was encouraging.
Considering all she’d been through, when her father was murdered,
Lily had come through okay. Still Rose worried. Sometimes she
couldn’t quite read her like she had in years past. There was
something off, but not anything she could put a finger on.

What
Rose did know for certain was just how challenging single parenting
could be. She had a whole new perspective. Doing it alone, without
Bill, was difficult to say the least.

He’d
been the anchor in her life, her best friend, her lover, and her
cheering squad. Of course Bill had been far from perfect, but he’d
been a man who wasn’t afraid to admit his mistakes, always asking
for God’s forgiveness. She hoped he had asked for the Lord’s
mercy before taking his last breath.

She
peeked in her purse at the leather-bound book that was Bill’s
personal journal. She wished for the hundredth time that she’d
never found it. Wasn’t ignorance supposed to be bliss? It was too
late now. She already knew too much to pretend otherwise.

“Hi,
Mrs. Howard.” A young man’s voice put a stop to her worries. “How
are you?”

She
could tell his question was sincere by the concern in his eyes. “I’m
better. Thanks so much for asking.” Rose liked Robert Billings. He
was a fine young man, strong in the Lord, and a journalism major at
Mount Hood Community College. He was just the type of man she would
like to see Lily interested in.

With
Sweet Sixteen just around the corner, Lily had earned the privilege
of dating in a group. But unfortunately, her daughter seemed to be
more interested in the rebellious, rock-star types.

“Mrs.
Howard...?” Robert began.

“It’s
about time you called me Rose,” she encouraged.

“All
right, Rose. I know Lily is going to be having a birthday
soon, and I was hoping you’d allow me the honor of taking her, with
some of the other kids, of course, out for a birthday dinner.” He
sighed as if relieved to say what was on his mind.

“I’m
sure that would be just fine. She’s over there.” Rose pointed
towards Lily, who was staring brazenly at the lead singer of the pop
band that had just taken the small stage.

Great,
why does she have to like all the wild ones?

The
demon, Senturus, hovered high above the fair on a thick
gnarled tree limb. Few rides were higher than his present viewpoint.
If a human were able to see him right now, they might mistake his
identity, believing him to be some deformed, winged, prehistoric
creature scanning the earth for prey. They would be right on both
counts, but not quite in the way they imagined.

The
searching for prey part was accurate. Indeed, he was ancient. But a
dinosaur, he was not.

Senturus
was one of the many beings created before the dawn of man. He, like
his commander, Prince Lucifer, was created by Elyon, who had many
names, such as: Jehovah, God Almighty, Jesus Christ. How he despised
those names, for they represented the GreatI AM.

“Your
what? Thoughts? What would a stupid demon like you be thinking
about?” Jocenlas cackled.

Senturus
was always stuck working alongside Jocenlas. He’d learned not to
complain though. After all, it might be worse; he could have Rakus
for a companion.

Senturus
eyed the gnarled branch, wishing for a momentary reprieve. But they
were too near a church of the faithful — those who had claimed this
land for God. On the other side of the field lay the town of Cherry
Creek. There they’d surely find some rest.

Rest
for them came only in the human realm in two ways: when they were
permitted by a human to travel in or with that human, or when a human
abdicated his authority over a specific geographical region.

There
were specific areas on earth that were havens for demons. These
refuges often lay in the worst sections of cities, or within corrupt
world political headquarters, where so many humans were under the
control of the Evil One that demons were
given complete control of the region.
They could also be found in a greed-filled church on Sunday morning,
in places where church staff used their positions for pleasure and
prosperity.

With
so many opportunities, gaining access to a human would be fairly
easy, if not for the fierce competition from other demons.

Human
emotions were great perches. Fear, unbelief, uncertainty, rebellion,
and pride were the strongest and most stable grips a demon could get
on a human. Once the human began believing and accepting the
whispered lies and half-truths the fiend crooned in his ear, the
demon would get some rest upon the perch of nagging thoughts and
emotions.

Senturus
had seen the mightiest of demons strip the host demon right off a
human. The devils from the tribe nicknamed The Addictions were good
for that.

Once
an Addiction got a perch, not many demons would even attempt to
unseat him from his human. The best demons were able to gain complete
possession of their human.

All
I have to do is to gain control of someone, he thought. Then he
began to despair, thinking about the difficulty of such an endeavor.
With this Christian filth around here, I have to be satisfied with
oppression, which gives me only a moment’s opportunity to rest.
These Christians toss us off like we are flies. They put up with us
just long enough until they start to pray for relief from God.

If
only I could get a denouncement of faith. That will happen. I just
have to get this job done. This job will be my prize seat! I’ll be
rid of Jocenlas for good. Let him take his comedy routine to the
Addictions, demons so strong they make me look pitiful. They won’t
appreciate him; that’s certain.

Senturus
redirected his attention on the job at hand. “There is much to
discuss,” he continued with authority, before Jocenlas could
interrupt again with his ridiculous attempts at humor.

Jocenlas
had been assigned to destroy a once famous comedian. Since completing
that quest, he was always attempting to make jokes, which were always
unfunny.

Senturus
explained, “Thus far, I’ve seen no evidence of the Heavenly Army,
but rest assured, they will come. This area is too crucial to be
ignored for long.” He again scanned the wooded landscape.

“I
heard that Marcus the Merciless will be joining us,” Jocenlas
commented, now intent on the tasks ahead rather than failed attempts
at humor.

“You
are correct. You and I are to instill lust and doubt into Lily
Howard, and pave the way for him. She is a prime candidate for
deception. The girl is disappointed in God and blames Him for her
father’s murder.”

“A
nice set up for us. Why they blame Him for our work
continually surprises even me. You would think they would have
learned over the centuries.” Jocenlas shook his horned head.

“Humans
are ungrateful, you know. They always want more of everything. When
God could provide them with everything, instead they turn to the
world and are left empty and craving yet more.” Senturus grinned.
He despised the human swine.

“These
humans couldn’t begin to comprehend what awaits them here in this
small town. And they say small towns are safe? Ha! Let us move in
closer and follow the girl. She is difficult to reach when
accompanied by her vile mother. That woman is fully devoted.”
Senturus wanted Rose Howard to suffer. Her spiritual confidence was
an abomination.

“Did
you receive the order about The Translator?” Jocenlas asked as he
passed Senturus and glided to a point just above the ground, his onyx
wings slightly extended.

“What?”
Senturus felt his excitement mounting.

“We
will be planting an ancient language into his mind. This will allow
him to translate the remainder of the words and symbols needed to
complete that which must come to pass.”

“Very
ingenious. Let us proceed. I want to accomplish as much as possible
before the holy people begin to join forces.” Senturus bolted
through the brush, joining his comrade.

“I
hate it when they surrender and pray,” Jocenlas agreed. He wasn’t
joking now.

Senturus
crouched low to the ground, his companion nearby. Together they slunk
though the field surrounding the carnival. Small rodents and animals
scurried away as they approached. It always amazed Senturus how
animals could sense their presence. Humans could too, if they were
spiritually discerning. Most, however, were not.

In
a flash, he reached down and grabbed a baby rabbit. Feeling its tiny
heartbeat race in fear, its eyes gazing up at him, wide in horror,
excited him.

Without
a second thought, he sunk his fangs into the tiny white ball of fluff
and tore its head off. Blood spewed in their path. He spat out the
head wishing it was Lily Howard’s. Now, that would be a tasty
treat.

Ted
Lyons drove with a crumpled road map in his hand. Although he’d
highlighted his destination, Cherry Creek, Oregon, the map was still
difficult to read at night, even with the overhead light. He’d yet
to embrace the technology that would eliminate his need for a
paper-made map. Maybe it was time to rethink that decision.

He
pondered the growing ministry in Southern California that he was
leaving behind. His friends and family were there. Ted didn’t know
anyone in Oregon, and had never even heard of Cherry Creek seven days
ago. Now he was making the town his home, a cold and wet home, if the
current weather was any indication.

He
cherished the warm southern climate, not this rain beating down on
his windshield. But more than anything created he loved The Creator.
When the Lord wanted Ted to drop all and follow, he followed. If any
doubts encroached, which they often did, he thought about Abraham’s
quest, and how he’d left everything behind to follow God. The
decision to move had been riddled with reservations, but he’d
relented.

For
Ted, the whole process started just a week ago at a leadership
conference where he’d enjoyed the company of several pastors from
the green, northern state. They’d discussed the plight of the
Cherry Creek Community Church, and Ted had felt that familiar tug in
his heart; the tug he knew, without doubt, was from God.

He’d
scheduled an appointment to meet with the church’s elders; and he
couldn’t deny the gnawing anticipation at the prospect of something
new and different. He was both saddened and intrigued by the events
leading to his arrival.

Murder
of a well-respected man of God and months without a replacement were
not ordinary occurrences. His intuition told him something was very
wrong in Cherry Creek. Having once been a police officer and,
briefly, a private investigator, caused Ted to be inquisitive. He was
lonely too; maybe here God would answer his prayers for a wife.

He
approached the exit, shifting gears, when an eerie chill fanned down
his spine. He sensed the presence of something close by — something
malevolent.

As
a pastor, who’d experienced more than a few implausible situations,
he understood what was happening — a spiritual attack. The enemy
didn’t want him to reach Cherry Creek.

He
was on the verge of an accident.

Wiping
a trickle of perspiration from his brow, he took a deep breath trying
to calm himself enough to think. The defroster had decided to quit
working and he couldn’t get his windows to open. He wiped the front
window with his palm. Nothing changed. It was too fogged to see. In
fact, he couldn’t see out any windows now.

A
horn blared as an unseen vehicle sped by on the left. Not knowing
what else to do, he pulled over to what he hoped was the right side
of the highway. Another car blew its horn and screeched to a halt
behind his bumper. It continued on its way around him, honking the
entire time.

Taking
another deep breath, Ted adjusted the controllers on his console.
Everything was functioning fine now. He wasn’t surprised to find
the windows working too. Fresh cool air poured in along with a few
raindrops. Thank God he was on the right shoulder. Both he and his
car were intact.

“Thank
you, God, for Your protection. Help me to reach Cherry Creek in one
piece.”

A
sense of relief replaced his fear. Such a blatant spiritual attack
confirmed what he’d suspected all along — this was no ordinary
job.

Taking
a long look over his shoulder, he maneuvered back into traffic. His
headlights reflected a welcoming sign just ahead — Cherry Creek
next exit. Clicking the turn signal, Ted turned toward an uncertain
future.

He
knew he was right on schedule.

The
angels assigned to protect the holy man unsheathed their flaming
swords. Their demonic foes screamed their fury, swearing obscenities
as they retreated from the pastor’s car, spiraling into the
overcast sky.

“Observe,
my friends. That preliminary encounter will allow Pastor Lyons to
reach his destination unscathed,” Raulo,the Lead Angel,
announced, triumphant. He continued to fly over Ted’s vehicle for a
few more minutes before veering to the right.

“This
man will provide the leadership the church needs. He is dynamic,
creative, tough, as the humans would say!” Raulo glanced curiously
to his right at Mileo, who had just been assigned to his ranks.

For
centuries, Mileo had been in charge of welcoming the saints into
heaven. Raulo could not fathom the reason for such a drastic change
in position, but he knew better than to question The Father’s
divine plans. He would make every effort to train the angel, helping
him develop his instinctive fighting skills.

“Mielo,
do you sense the evil creatures arriving? Your opportunity for battle
may arrive sooner than expected. We will discuss strategic warfare
soon,” Raulo explained as the church’s steeple drew his
attention. He circled, landing on a grassy slope. He and his
battalion would rendezvous here.

From
his position, he watched as the pastor parked his car, heading
towards the safety of the Country Inn Hotel. He hoped Ted and the
other Christians would begin to pray soon. Their petitions affected
heavenly response far more than they were aware.

Raising
his magnificent wings, Raulo saluted his fellow comrades as they too
glided down. He marveled at God’s handiwork. Each angel was created
different. They all shared human qualities, but they were anything
but ordinary.

All
were clad in flowing beige or white tunics adorned with glittering
jewels. Swords, shields, spears, and crossbows could be seen attached
to belts or tucked inside their cascading garments. All were male in
appearance, although not men in the human sense of the word. They
were muscular and fit. Most of the warriors towered well over seven
feet tall, a few even taller. Amazing, grand, powerful, and perfect
could only begin to describe his heavenly allies.

Raulo
reached into his tunic and grasped his most prized possession, an
exquisite golden trumpet. Placing the instrument to his lips, he
blew. The sound, gloriously clear and perfectly holy, signaled the
beginning of their meeting.

“Let
us begin.”

Raulo
recognized many of the warriors from previous battles. These angels
were what the humans would refer to as the “best of the best.”

“Lord,
we praise and honor you. May we obey and operate inside the
parameters of your perfect will.” The intercessory angel opened
their meeting.

Raulo
stood to his full height, commanding respect. “Welcome, friends.
Many of you have traveled far and are eager to receive your new
assignments. Our leader, Michael, has given us explicit directions
from The Father. I expect Rafael will join us in the future.”

He
observed his companions’ reactions. They were thrilled by the
prospect of fighting alongside such a respected and experienced
warrior.

Unrolling
the glowing parchment, Mileo had given him, he began: “Several
humans will play crucial roles in resolving this conflict. Rose
Howard, Ted Lyons, and Karen White will be protected and guided by me
and my new partner, Mileo. Argentio will have a challenging young
charge, Lily Howard. These humans will be under intense attack. I am
quite certain you all received extensive background information on
each individual in your pre-battle briefings.”

He
surveyed the warriors. All eyes remained on him.

He
continued, “We are not yet permitted to engage in outright combat.
Our job is to protect the humans involved in this conflict, yet we
must allow them to make their own mistakes. The enemy will be
permitted to test these humans, extensively, for a time.”

Pausing,
he allowed this statement to penetrate. By the uneasyglances he knew the significance of the boundaries were
understood, not liked, but accepted.

“We
are to protect their lives and offer encouragement. I believe at a
later time we will be allowed to take a more aggressive approach. Our
actions will depend on the tactics the enemy employs.

I
am not sure what they are after, but from their numbers, it is of the
highest significance.”

Etta
King is the author of the Caspian University novels, a series
chronicling the life and times of a group of wealthy teens who
inevitably discover the various flavors of college drama. Etta writes
from her personal experiences as a college co-ed and as the product
of an all-girls prep school. Here she witnessed the very
eccentricities and foibles which she depicts in her novels.

In
a home filled with books, it was no surprise that Etta grew to be an
avid reader, and that translated into writing when she was thirteen.
She wrote simply for the fun of it, whatever would come to mind, from
fantasy to thriller to romance, and shared her stories with her
friends.

In
2010, at twenty-one and just as she was about to graduate from
college, Etta began writing "The Life and Times of Elizabeth and
the Duchess." This was a story which had first taken shape in
2008, after her freshman year, but had been put on hold. With
graduation looming, Etta recalled the characters, and the events
which had inspired them, and took pen to paper. Literally, as Etta
enjoys writing out her stories before typing them out. Soon the first
book had been completed and the series was born.

"The
Life and Times of the Heir and the Keeper," comes as the sequel
to "Elizabeth and the Duchess," and serves as the second
semester of these teens' college saga. Etta is currently working on
the third book, in what will be an eight-part series.

They
say college is a lot of things; a haven, a four-year party, the place
you met the girl – or guy – of your dreams. What they don’t
tell you is, the best part of college is the drama YOU bring to the
table! After all, that dirty little secret, that not-so-little white
lie, and those texts you wish you could erase from cyberspace can’t
stay hidden forever. At CU, someone’s always watching, and you
better hope there isn’t a camera phone on hand when you get caught.

It’s
the Spring Semester, but it’s not all fun in the budding sun for
Jon and Franz. Follow them as they delve through the politics of
secret societies, the inevitable drama of the F-word (that’s
FAMILY, for the uninitiated), creepy Resident Advisors, creepier
residents and girls who don’t always say what they mean. Who
wouldn’t need two months to recuperate?

Cheers!
And GL!

Excerpt:

Jonathan

I
woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating on the floor. I scooted
out of bed, trying not to wake Elizabeth as I went to pick it up. I
missed it and I saw four missed calls. All from Chadwick. Crap, it
was six thirty-seven. I called him back and made my way to my
bathroom, while it rang.

“Hey,”
I said when he picked up. “Sorry, about that; you were on the phone
when we went upstairs.”

“Yeah,
that’s okay, I’m home. Look, Jon, I’m going to say this just
this once and then I won’t say it again.” I got an ominous
feeling and leaned against the sink, ignoring the cold marble.

“Okay…”

“Judith,”
he began and I bit down on my groan. If ever I was tired of hearing
one person’s name in a day.

“I
don’t care what it is you did, I really don’t.”

“I
didn’t do anything.”

“Whatever.
Just don’t do anything else.”

“What?”
I couldn’t help the irritation creeping into my voice.

“Nothing
else, okay? Just don’t lead her on, don’t mess with her.”

“What
the hell do you think I did?”

“Honestly?
I think you hooked up with her and never called her back. Or maybe
you did and she didn’t understand how you worked.” How
I worked??

“Jesus,
Chad, seriously?”

“Look,
I’m not judging you.”

“Are
you drunk?”

“I’m
not
judging you, I just want you to leave her alone, okay?”

I
was silent; what the absolute fuck had Judith said to Chad? What was
her problem anyway? Three weeks was all it had been, for God’s
sake.

“I
didn’t do anything to her, Chad.”

“So
why is she calling me and crying?”

I
massaged my temple and shook my head.

“Because
she’s Judith, Chad. Because I haven’t told her about Elizabeth
and I, and I don’t feel like calling her and skipping that
conversation, so I’d rather just not. Because yes, she called me,
called my house, sent me messages, but all I want is for her to calm
down and stop acting like I’m Judas. Because yeah, we’re friends
and she feels that means she has exclusive rights to my number.
Because…” My God, I could go on and on.

“Not
because you hooked up with her?”

“She
told you that?”

“You’re
not saying you didn’t.”

“This
is not about hooking up. I don’t understand why she’s so anxious
to talk to me, but that’s pretty much it. I’m just not ready.”

Okay,
but just a little…I’m not nearly as interesting as my writing. I
live on the Oregon coast with my husband and my Pit Bulls. We have a
grown daughter who’s a vet tech and part-time model, living in
Bend, Oregon. When we first came to Oregon, we rehabilitated a 1906
Victorian farmhouse and carriage house, and turned it into a Bed &
Breakfast Inn. Within a year we had won the award for Best B&B in
the state, and we were manufacturing our granola cereals (Wholly Cow)
for the specialty food industry. Fun times! We did that for five
years, but then were involved in a car accident that required us to
sell the mansion and the businesses. I wrote my first novel while
recovering from my first (of many) surgeries.

BK: We have pit bulls too :). Sorry to hear about your accident though. Please tell us a little about your book....

The
hero of the story, Blair Bowman, is a young girl just sixteen years
old, in 1927. She’s growing up without a mother on the wild and
sparsely-populated coast of Oregon…and she’s pregnant. Imagine
you’re Blair, and your father is the town’s fire-and-brimstone
Baptist preacher. And then imagine he is the rapist. Oh, and he’s
crazier than a submarine with screen doors, too.

Blair
survives her desperate circumstances with the unexpected help from a
wealthy dairy farmer’s youngest son, and some strangely comforting
words from a favorite teacher. Ironically, the preacher just isn’t
the forgiving sort. He’s not happy when Sean Marshall interferes in
his and his child-wife’s affairs. Bowman sets his sights on the
Marshall family, and everyone else who might oppose him. Fortunately,
evil doesn’t always win. It has a sweet (maybe bittersweet)
ending.

BK:
What inspired you to pen this particular novel?

While
we were restoring our Victorian farmhouse, we found an early photo
(1920’s) of a girl standing on a rock. She was smiling, but I had
the unshakeable impression the girl was horribly sad. I thought about
that girl’s sad eyes for weeks before I finally told my husband I
was going to write a story about her.

BK: It sounds like it was meant to be. When did you first consider yourself a writer?

That
would have been when I received my first acceptance letter for a
short story I’d written. But I did not consider myself an “author”
until I had sold my first novel.

BK: It's a great feeling, isn't it? How do you keep your story flowing?

I’ve
never run into a problem with that, because I don’t actually start
writing until my outline is well fleshed-out and my characters are
all “born” (i.e., structured writing). I always know where I’m
going from the start.

BK:
Do you ever run into writer's block, and if so, what do you do to get
past it?

I
don’t believe I ever have. I mean, there have been times when I’ve
finished a chapter and I’m not sure how I want to start the next
one, but I don’t panic and refer to it as a block. I think about
some of the other scenes that will need to be a part a of the story,
even if it is quite a bit further into the book. If any of those
“scenes” gets my juices stirring when I think about it, I’ll
work on one of those, instead. There’s no rule that you have to
write each chapter in its consecutive order. In fact, sometimes I’ll
even put the novel away for a while and goof around with poetry or
flash fiction. I love the story I’m writing and I love the
characters I’ve created--I know I’m coming back to it, so I don’t
worry.

BK: That's not the first time I've heard about writing out of order, then putting that piece of the story in when it comes time. What is your writing process like? Do you have any quirks, or
must-haves to write?

I
have quirks--maybe one or two “must haves.” I need noise--I don’t
really care what it is. It can be loud music, my Pit Bulls horsing
around, the TV blaring or appliances whirring--or all of them at
once. I just can’t concentrate if it’s quiet. As for the
must-haves (you would ask me this, B.K.!), I have severe and chronic
pain, 24/7, but I do not like to take pain pills. So, I need my
champagne Mimosa and my cigarettes…and, no, I don’t smoke
tobacco. Nuff said.

BK: LOL, well I happen to LOVE Mimosas :). Where do you hope your books/writing will be in the future?

I’m
really hoping I get the chance to write every story idea I have in my
notebook pocket before I kick the bucket! I also have begun writing
the screenplay for “Bodie.” I’m at a stop right now because my
books are taking front burner, but I’m looking forward to writing
the screenplay with the collaboration of a talented writer friend,
who happens to be an award-winning screenwriter. Beyond that, I would
love to help others someday, perhaps by starting a writer’s
workshop summer program, but I don’t have the educational
requirements to teach. Maybe after I’ve authored ten books or so,
they’ll let that slide…?

BK: I'm sure, or if I decide to come to Oregon we can plan on a workshop together :). What do you hope readers will take away from your books?

I
included Christian themes and principles throughout my books, which I
think are pretty easily absorbed. They all lead back to a common
theme of hope (thus the title, from the Emily Dickinson poem,
“Hope”), or a faith in God‘s love for us. Life can be pretty
sad and meaningless without it. My heroine, Blair, is demure and
tiny, and horribly victimized. But armored with Hope, she’s a
survivor who manages to accomplish the difficult-side of impossible.
I would love it if the story helps my readers, women especially, feel
emboldened.

BK: Well, you already know I can't wait to read it. It sounds amazing. Sadly, I found I had a deadline with another book due this week, so the thing with feathers is next in line. What is one piece of advice you received that you carry with you in
your writing?

I’ll
give you three! One: don’t become a journalist--I tend to bury the
lead; Two: always proof-read my manuscript aloud. It’s the only way
to hear syntax, rhythm and pace; and, Three: grow thicker skin. If I
can’t take criticism, I will never make it in this business.

BK: Excellent advice! What is one piece of advice you would give to new and aspiring
writers?

If you have not yet written your masterpiece, I recommend you first read
as much as you can of literature (traditionally-published) in your
own genre--try to absorb the quality of styles that got those authors
published. If you’ve already written your debut manuscript, then my
one piece of advice would be, figure out your platform and get a firm
grip on it, before your book hit’s the market. Marketing is tough!
And every publisher expects the author’s help. This will put you
ahead of the game.

BK: This was brilliantly said and awesome advice for a newbie. Thank you Anne. Are you currently working on any new projects? What can we expect
from you in the future?

My
next manuscript, “Bodie,” is in the final read-through at Tate
Publishing, before we arrange typesetting and cover art. The release
date is TBD, but it’s running ahead of schedule and should be in
early spring. I am currently writing my third, “Grog Wars,” about
the first beer brewers to come to Portland, Oregon--Shanghai capital
of the world (and a pretty dangerous place to be a drinker!)

BK:
Where can readers find you?

I can
always be reached through my website:
www.Historical-Horse-Feathers.com
or www.AnneSweazyKulju.com,
via my Facebook Fan Page, on RedRoom.com, GoodReads, LibraryThing,
Tate Publishing’s website, and Twitter. I’m also on Pinterest,
StudioVox, Google+, and I am a member of several writers’ groups on
LinkedIn, where published authors and industry professionals try to
help aspiring writers, and each other. Please feel free to contact
me!

Thank
you so much for taking time to chat with me today. It's been a
pleasure having you and I wish you much success in the future.

Thanks,
B.K. This is my first virtual tour, and it has been a great
experience!

the
thing with feathers

By
Anne Sweazy Kulju

About
Anne:

ANNE
SWEAZY KULJU has won awards for editorials and honors for short
stories, but now she writes historical fiction adventures,
exclusively. Her debut novel, “the thing with feathers,” was
released by Tate Publishing in September 2012. Her book, “Bodie,”
a total thrill ride, is expected to release in early 2013, and she is
currently busy on her next book, “Grog Wars,” set in 1850’s
Portland, Oregon, the Shanghai capital of the world. Anne lives near
Pacific City, Oregon, and divides her free time between the beach and
Mount Bachelor. Readers may learn more about Anne and correspond with
her on her website at www.AnneSweazyKulju.com
.

As
the inhabitants of Cloverdale, Oregon, welcomed in the twentieth
century, they were not unaccustomed to hard times and thorny
situations. Small communities banded together for protection and
hope. Heroes and villains were often difficult to decipher.

When
an itinerate Baptist preacher arrived with his baby daughter and a
wife lost on the trail, there was no one prepared to suspect what
lurid secrets and heartbreak he might be concealing. As the preacher
sets his sights against those who might oppose him, the names and the
lives of the good people of Cloverdale may not be spared.

Yet
in the midst of the machinations of a mad man, virtue and valor can
persist. The Thing with Feathers is known to fly through wars,
depressions, and natural disasters. Will the Marshall clan and the
good people of Cloverdale find it in time?

Excerpt:

“Seems
she don’t much care for song leaders neither.” The musician
reached for another piece of the pie.

“On
the contrary.” Preacher Bowman gave the man a knowing look.

“Serious?
Naw. Pull my other leg, it has bells on!” he’d told him.

“I
never knew a young girl who didn’t attempt to lure a man she’s
interested in away from the prying eyes of her father.” The
preacher pushed his platter away from himself and smiled. “You’ll
probably be wanting your payment now. I believe I promised you better
pay than you’ve ever had before. Well, my man, it waits for you in
the canning shed out back.” Bowman nodded his head toward the
kitchen window. He encouraged the music man to get up and take a
look.

The
musician followed Bowman’s gaze out the window that hung over the
kitchen sink. He spotted the side of the small shed and his eyes
caught barely a glimpse of Blair’s floral skirt moving within. He
tossed a confused look to the preacher, who gave the man a
surreptitious wink and then resumed his seat at the table.

A
lecherous look registered in the music man’s deep-set eyes about
the same instant the preacher’s intentions reached his cramped
mind. The musician reached for the back door handle and opened it,
looking back at the preacher once more to be sure that that was what
the preacher intended. He was rewarded with a silent nod.